


all i'm really asking for is you

by abellum (nishta)



Series: the laws of the world never stopped us [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishta/pseuds/abellum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezio comes to say goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i'm really asking for is you

**Author's Note:**

> Set just before AC:R, and written listening to Beyonce's "Mine" on repeat. It shows.

I.

Ezio finds Leonardo in Milano, settled comfortably in his own home.  The search had not lasted long; Leonardo’s fame had grown even since they had last seen each other, far beyond Ezio’s own infamy.  Had he been younger, he would have found it funny.

Ezio considers three options.  The walls are rough and would be easy to scale; a window lock is easily picked.  Yet he feels he owes Leonardo more respect than this, and looks to the front door.  He imagines himself stepping forward, hood pushed back, hands clasped behind his back—imagines clearing his throat, lifting a hand to knock—imagines a startled servant answering the door, eyes wide at the sight of his armor, at the longsword that hangs at his side, the daggers strapped across his chest and the heavy bracers of his hidden blades.  Imagines having to speak to someone other than Leonardo.

He then considers his third, last, most tempting option.  He could leave.  As much as he feels he should say goodbye—as much as—

Leonardo does not need to see him.  Ezio should not force this on him.

And yet…

Ezio takes a deep breath, forcing tension from his body.  He presses his hands—scarred, calloused, dirtied and bloodied under the nails—against his face, scratching at his beard with irritation.  He should have shaved earlier.

Earlier, before the moon had risen to watch Ezio humiliate himself.

“ _Va bene_ ,” he whispers to himself.  “You did not come so far to slink away like a child.”

 

II.

The knock at the door is sharp and short, quick as an arrow to cut through the silence.  The hour is odd, but not uncommon; Leonardo has become used to untimely visitors, and finds he cannot begrudge them too much, as his own sense of time is often lacking.  Carlotta peeks into the room, eyebrow cocked.  “Would you like me to send them away, sir?”

Leonardo sighs from his chair.  “See who it is, first,” he says, distracted by the sketch in front of him.  “If it is, say, a message from an important political figure…”  He waves a hand, vaguely.  “Graciously accept, perhaps offer them a bit of food.  But I cannot say I wish to engage anyone directly tonight.”

Carlotta hums.  “Yes, sir,” she says, and ducks from the room.

 

III.

Time stretches before him as an angry void, silent and dark.  Hand wavering, Ezio knocks again, unsure if it would be construed as rude.  “Leo—ah,” he stumbles, correcting himself.  Feigning confidence, he knocks sharply at the door, swearing under his breath.  “Leonardo?” he calls, surprised as desperation constricts his chest.

The door swings out from under his clenched fist, opening to reveal a small serving girl.  “Signore,” she says, hand clasped still at the handle.  “How may I help you?”

Ezio clears his throat, smoothing hair from the nape of his neck.  “Leonardo,” he says.  “I’m here to see Leonardo.”

The girl smiles, indulgent and entirely formal.  “I am afraid he is indisposed at the moment,” she says.  “He is not taking visitors.”

Desperation bleeds into panic, Ezio’s jaw clenched tight.  “Indisposed?” he whispers, his own mind a blur of possibilities—was it illness?  had Leonardo hurt himself in some impulsive experiment?  had someone else hurt him?  did someone—“hurt him?” 

The serving girl raises a brow, moving to close the door.  “I am sorry, sir,” she says.  “I will tell him you stopped by, if you wish.  I assume you are staying nearby?”

Ezio stares.  “Did someone hurt him?  Did—”  He catches the door as it begins to close.  “Please,” he says.  “Is Leonardo alright?”

"He is fine," the girl replies, tone sharp.  "There is no need for worry."

The relief Ezio expects to feel at her words does not find him, instead hovering just inside the door, bathed in gentle candlelight.  “Please,” he says again.  “I need to see him.”

When he moves to enter, the girl falters.  “He is not seeing anyone, sir,” she says.  “You will have to return tomorrow.”

"I am leaving tomorrow!" Ezio cries.  "I am leaving.  I must see Leonardo."  At the girl’s clear indecision, he drops his shoulders, catching her eye.  "Please," he murmurs.

She breaks.  “I… I will tell him you are here,” she says, eyes wary.  “Who shall I tell him is calling?”

" _Grazie_ ,” he breathes, a brief smile pursing his lips.  “Tell him that Ezio Auditore has come to see him.”

 

 IV.

 Leonardo is surprised when Carlotta appears in the doorway, far later than he had expected.  “Who was it?” he asks, glancing up from his sketches.  Upon seeing her discomfort, he straightens.  “Carlotta?”

 ”He is very strange,” she says, voice quiet and worried.  “He would not take no for an answer.”

 Leonardo’s brow knits.  “What has happened, Carlotta?  Who was it?”

 Carlotta clears her throat, glancing at her hands.  “He is in the waiting room,” she says, hesitant.

 ”You let him in?”  Leonardo fights to suppress both concern and curiosity.  “Carlotta, if he is in the house, you must tell me.”

 She nods.  “He told me to tell you—when I asked for his name—he said his name was Ezio Auditore.”

 ” _Mio dio_.”  Leonardo’s voice is faint, eyes distant.  “I am sorry, I—Carlotta, you must bring him here immediately.”

 ”Sir?  Would you not rather—” 

 ” _Now_ , Carlotta.”

 

V.

The serving girl opens the door for him, stepping aside so that he might enter.  He thanks her, an absent gesture; the door closes behind him with a soft  _click_ , and he is surrounded by the smell of paint, of soaked wood, of burnt wax.  Relief sits on his shoulders, bright as candlelight.

"Hello, Leonardo," he says, and he feels seventeen all over again.

Leonardo turns to face him at his words, locking their eyes.  His hair and beard are faded to a pale gray, curling still to frame a face as gentle and slender as Ezio had first seen it.  Leonardo is beautiful, he thinks—and relief makes him giddy, because he smiles and says, “I must confess, my vanity had hoped that time would dull your charms.  I see that I was wrong.”

Leonardo smiles, and it is warm.  “You flatter me, Ezio.”  Warm—and mischievous.  “I could say the same for you, but then, I suppose that is what you want.”  Moving from his chair, he steps to greet Ezio first in a handshake, and then in an enthusiastic embrace.

"I would not object," Ezio says, the smile on his face taut with disuse.  "God, but it is good to see you, Leonardo."

"It did not have to be such a long time, had you not made it such," Leonardo reminds him.

Ezio pulls back from the embrace, uncomfortable yet unwilling to part entirely from Leonardo’s touch.  “It was necessary,” he says.  “You know I did not…”  He breaks, laughing.  “I did not want to endanger you, Leonardo.  I suppose I should have thought of you sooner, but…”

"Hush, Ezio."  Leonardo’s voice is light, but it is a command.  "You cannot blame yourself for any harm that has come to me—surely you do not!"  He meets Ezio’s eye, challenging.  "As you can see, I have emerged from your own quarrel relatively unscathed."  He spreading his arms and chuckles, twisting his torso to demonstrate.  Dropping his arms back to his side, he smiles at Ezio, softer this time.  "In fact," he says, pouting as though in thought, "I believe I was always safest in your company."

And this time, when Leonardo glances at him, it is dangerous—subdued, maybe, but Leonardo’s eyes hold a frightening amount of mischief, as teasing as they are serious.  There is a threat there, Ezio thinks, or perhaps a promise.  With Leonardo, it is always difficult to tell.

"I am only glad I was able to protect you from whatever danger I may have introduced to your life,"  Ezio says, formal in his caution.  "You were always a dear friend, Leonardo.  You know that."

"Ezio, what have I said about blaming yourself?"

"Leonardo, please," Ezio says, meeting tension with forced laughter.  "Just let me—"

Leonardo presses a hand to Ezio’s mouth, expression dark.  “Ezio,” he warns.  “If you have returned just to wallow in misplaced self-pity, you can turn around right now and  _leave_.”

"I need to do this," Ezio tries, Leonardo’s fingers a whisper against his lips.  "I need to apologize."

Withdrawing his hand, Leonardo sighs.  “You are a grown man,” he says.  “I have known you for more than three decades.  And yet you insist on treating us both like children.”

"I do not—that is not what I am doing!  Leonardo, please, I need you to listen to me—"

"I am listening," Leonardo says, voice clipped.  "When are you going to stop your apologies, Ezio?  When have I ever given you the impression that I did not trust you?"

Ezio moves to speak, confusion coupling with indignation.  Leonardo shakes his head.

"You may see your apologies as an attempt to redeem yourself, Ezio, but they reflect on me, as well.  You insist that I am no separate entity, that I am but a mind that needs protection, that I am so base that I would hold your own wounds against you."  He scoffs, face turned from Ezio’s view.  "You mean a great deal to me, Ezio," he says.  "You must know that.  But you must also know not to mistake my affection for vulnerability."

"Leonardo!"

"You are a  _child_ , Ezio,” Leonardo hisses.  “You do  _not_  get to disappear for  _five years_  and show up on an old man’s doorstep, murmuring  _apologies_  about how  _you only wanted to protect me_!”

Ezio shrinks from Leonardo’s anger, eyes downcast in an attempt to avoid Leonardo’s bright eyes.  “You must believe me,” he says.  “Leonardo, please.  Cesare is dead.  I was—free.  I thought.  I was free, for a moment.  That is what you deserve, too.  To be free.”

Leonardo shifts to face him, incredulous.  “Free?  Of what, Ezio?  Surely you do not mean…”

"Of me, Leonardo," Ezio murmurs.  "I have been nothing but trouble.  I  _am_  trouble.  You are not an Assassin, Leonardo, I would never ask you to be, I could never hope to repay you—”

"No.  Oh, no."

Ezio glances up, fully expecting to see on Leonardo’s face disappointment, disgust, fury.  Instead, and infinitely more painful, he sees  _sadness_ : etched into the soft lines of Leonardo’s face, curling at frown of his lips, between the crease of his brows.

Leonardo presses a hand, warm, to Ezio’s cheek.  When Ezio refuses to look him in the eye, he brushes a thumb against the line of his jaw.  “Look at me,  _caro mio_ ,” he says, cupping both hands against Ezio’s face.  “You know I cannot stay angry with you.”

Petulant, Ezio keeps his eyes downcast.  “You should try harder.”

Laughter is not the response he had wanted, but it is what Leonardo gives him.  “You are a child,” Leonardo says, not unkindly.  “But I have been foolish, as well.”

"No, Leonardo."  Ezio tries to twist out of Leonardo’s grasp, berating himself for forgetting the strength of an artist’s hands.  "Let me go.  This is not your fault."

"But it is," Leonardo whispers, eyes searching Ezio’s face.  "I should never have let you think these things."  He draws his thumbs across Ezio’s cheeks, touch light and apologetic.  "I have been negligent."

Ezio frowns.  “Stop this, Leonardo.”

"Hush, hush."  Leonardo smiles, but it is sharpened at the corners, taut with sadness.  "You are here because you think you owe me something."  His hands fall from Ezio’s face, and there is a pause.

"You have been nothing but kind to me, nothing but a perfect friend," Ezio says.  "I have known you for most of my life.  I met you when I was—when I  _was_  a child.  You knew my father, Leonardo.”  A foreign pain constricts in his chest, threatening to burst his heart as it beats.  “Had you asked me ten years ago, twenty, who was the most important person in my life—I would have scoffed, you know.  Rodrigo, Cesare Borgia.  They ruled my life, in turn.  I lived in the hopes that I might kill them.  I…”

He pauses, breathes, sighs when Leonardo flinches at the mention of the Borgia.  “I was obsessed,” he says.  “This is the greatest sin a man can commit: to live not his own life, but the life of a wraith, chasing his death through the guise of another’s.”

Leonardo takes the bait.  “And if, say…  If someone were to ask you who the most important person in your life is.  Today.”  He coughs.  “Surely you would not still say the Borgia.”

Ezio smiles, and feels the stretch and thump of his heart in his throat.  “No,” he says.  “No, I would not.”

"Who, then?"

Ezio recognizes the dangerous nature of this game they are playing; he has set himself at the center of the board, a temptation in his vulnerability.  Leonardo knows this, Ezio can feel his mind reeling from it, and still Leonardo moves closer, circling.  They truly are children, Ezio thinks.

"Surely you know?"  He scoffs, but there is no confidence, no strength behind it.  "How could I name any other but you, Leonardo?"

"Ezio…"

"You are thinking, Leonardo," Ezio says, "that I do not know what I am saying.  You are thinking of trying to convince me of my own folly.  You intend to use my faith in you as the crux of your argument."  Leonardo glances at him sideways, and Ezio laughs.  "Do not think I do not know you.  You may have known me for thirty years, but I have known you for just as long."  He pauses, wiggling his eyebrows in an attempt at comedy.  "And there is little you can hide from an Assassin.  You know this."

Leonardo is flushed to the shoulders, fingers clasped tight in front of him.  “You always were a comic,” he murmurs.

Ezio  _tsk_ s.  “Now, now, Leonardo.  You are an old man.  Surely you do not intend to evade the truth until death.”

"You are just as old," Leonardo challenges.  "And you still act as though you were barely twenty."

Ezio grins, teeth bared.  “Ah,” he says, “but an old man must keep some charm.”

Silence falls between them, heavy and awkward.  Leonardo remains just out of reach; he stands an arm’s length from Ezio, one hand clasped against his forearm in defense; his gaze has wandered back to his work table, attention lost.

Feeling desperation claw its way back into his chest, Ezio breathes—deep, deep, deep, forcing himself to sigh.  He came here for a reason, he reminds himself.

To say goodbye.

"You must have thought I would not remember," he begins, turning from Leonardo to pace.  "You did not ever mention it to me, so I always figured you feigned ignorance to save my dignity."  At the far wall, he brushes a calloused hand against the soft binding of an old sketchbook, tucked in between two larger tomes.  "You could not have meant it as an offense, I could not believe it," he continues, observing with some interest the dust now coloring his thumb.  "But I was drunk, and you must have thought my actions ill-fated, or worse—a mistake.  An accident, perhaps."

Ezio keeps his back turned, knowing he would be unable to continue were he able to see Leonardo’s face.  He imagines shock, confusion, even disgust—none of which he can face.  Not tonight, not now.

He stops in front of an unfamiliar painting, unfinished with its skeleton still sketched roughly on the canvas.  “I would be surprised,” he says, “if you did not, by now, know what I am talking about.  But given your silence, I will give you the benefit of the doubt.  Perhaps it was not as meaningful to you as it was to me.”

He listens to Leonardo’s labored breathing, clearly a symptom of some strong emotion.  Fearing the silence will last too long, he begins to pace once more, and as he does, forces himself to continue.  “To think that we were both so young,” he muses, voice low.  “To think of that moment now, at my current age, I do not blame you for your feigned ignorance.  I would have done the same, I think.  I was foolish.”  Ezio laughed, head hung to hide his nerves.  “But I was right.  I was headstrong, and foolish, and even childish—but I was right.  I still am.”

Ezio pauses to gauge Leonardo’s breathing, satisfied at the soft, shallow gasps.  “We were in Venice, you remember,” he says.  “Your workshop.  One of the few times I came to you without blood under my nails.”  He laughs, wiping a hand against his forehead, his eyes.  “I do not remember, but I believe it was on purpose.  I knew you would not notice, but I wanted to know that for once, I would not be tracking blood into your home.  I thought it was the least I could do, for a friend.”

Leonardo exhales behind him, a breath too weak to carry any sound.  Ezio straightens as he continues to pace, gaining ground, gaining confidence.  “I brought you wine, too, but it was an afterthought.  I believe I had already worked my way through a bottle, myself.”  He smiles at the memory, amused if somewhat exasperated with his own behavior.  “I had forgotten your birthday the week before, but I was determined to make it up to you.  To get you away from your work, to redirect your attention.  To get you to pay attention to  _me_ , Ezio Auditore—not as an assassin, but as a young man, smitten beyond all reason.”

 _There_ , Ezio thinks when he hears Leonardo cough.   _There it is_.  He presses on.  “We drank that night.  We drank, and I saw you smile the most brilliant smile I had ever seen, and I remember thinking, yes, this must be what the sun looks like.  I felt like a moth, Leonardo—a simple creature flying headfirst into a flame, frantic and clumsy.  You were my flame.”

Leonardo coughs again, and this time Ezio hears him shift, if only slightly.  Now he must be careful, but firm:  Leonardo will either move away, or he will move forward.   _Closer_.

Turning, finally, to face him, Ezio smiles softly.  “Do you remember what I said to you, Leonardo?”

Leonardo’s eyes are wide, pupils blown.  “You asked to marry me,” he whispers.  “You said it, and you laughed.  You laughed at the thought, and you were far from sober—Ezio, you were gone, mind a mess of alcohol and latent mental scarring.  You did not mean it as anything but as a joke.”

"Oh, Leonardo," Ezio says, daring to take a single step forward.  "You are a brilliant man, and yet you can be so dense."

Leonardo purses his lips, brow furrowed.  “You did not mean it, Ezio.”

"I have never meant anything more, Leonardo, and on this, you must take my word.  I  _remember_.  My head was on your lap, yes—” he waited for Leonardo to nod—“and I had stretched to tangle one hand in your hair, to tilt your head down, to keep you close—” smiles at the flush spreading slowly across Leonardo’s cheeks—“and I laughed, because I was drunk, but also because I was  _happy_.  Can you blame me, Leonardo, for wanting to keep that moment?  Forever?  To clasp it between two hands, tuck it deep into my cloak, feel its warmth against my chest whenever I ran dry of strength?  Hm?  How else was I to do that?”

"What you suggested was blasphemy," Leonardo says carefully.  "A man cannot marry another man.  A man cannot even love another man.  You know this as well as I."

They are an arm’s length apart when Ezio speaks.  “We could not have done it, I know,” he says.  Smiling, he adds, “I would not have been faithful, anyway.  Nor, I think, would you.”

Leonardo’s stare is level, calculated and reserved.  Ezio steps closer.

" ‘Holy matrimony’ was not precisely what I had in mind, when I spoke of marriage."  Slowly,  _slowly_ , he brings his hands to rest on Leonardo’s shoulders.  “I was young,” he whispers, searching Leonardo’s face for any sign of skittishness.  “We both were.”

"It has been too long, Ezio," Leonardo says.  "You cannot… it is not possible.  It has been too long."

Ezio knows this, of course he does, but it hurts to hear it from Leonardo’s lips.  More than he expected.  He sighs, brushing the palms of his hands from Leonardo’s shoulders to his wrists, clasping Leonardo’s hands in his own.  “I did not expect—I do not expect.”  Shaking his head, he weaves their fingers together.  “This is not why I am here.  I am sorry to have pushed this onto you so late.”   _Thirty years too late_ , he thinks.

When Leonardo smiles, it is born of deprecation.  He stares at his fingers, curled tight against Ezio’s, while he speaks.  “I suppose,” he says, “I should not be surprised.”  Meeting Ezio’s eyes, he finds giddy laughter bubbling up in his throat.  “I am… I am grateful.”

Ezio presses a kiss to the back of Leonardo’s hands, lips quirked.  “You are the dearest friend I have ever had,” he says, and his mouth is warm against Leonardo’s skin.  “I owe you a great debt, for all you have done—a debt that you need not accept, Leonardo, I know, but a debt nonetheless.”  He pauses, considering their clasped hands.  “A debt,” he adds carefully, “that I cannot repay.  Not in this life.”

The air shifts around them, and Leonardo is instantly wary.  Pulling his hands from Ezio’s, he takes a step back.  “Why did you come here, Ezio?”  When Ezio glances from him, hands clenching nervously at his sides, Leonardo sighs.  “Please, Ezio, do not press this any longer.  Our time is limited, now more than ever.”

Ezio’s hands are shaking as he pulls them together, searching desperately for a distraction.  Finding none, and pinned by Leonardo’s gaze, he lets his shoulders drop and forces the air from his lungs.  Glancing at Leonardo, he says, “I am leaving.  Tomorrow.”  When Leonardo cocks a brow, clearly nonplussed, Ezio shifts his weight nervously.  “I shall not return, Leonardo.  Not this time.”

Realization dawns, steady and dark, on Leonardo’s face.

"I have spent three decades as an Assassin," he says, "with nothing but blood to show for it.  No answers.  No father, no brothers.  No wife, no children.  ‘We work in the dark to serve the light,’ you know this.  But I have spent too long in the dark."

Leonardo eyes him warily.

"I need  _answers_ , Leonardo.  And to do that, I…”

"You must return to Masyaf."

Ezio is quick to look at Leonardo, taken aback.  “Yes.  You understand?”

Leonardo’s smile is sad, but it is a smile, and it is genuine.  “Of course, Ezio,” he murmurs.  “You deserve this.  You deserve answers.  And—” he pauses, unsure—“you deserve a life outside of the Assassins.”

"You are alright with this."

"To live a lifetime in a few decades, as you have, is taxing.  I have seen it wear at you, Ezio.  And you know, better than I, better than anyone, the certainty and inevitability of death."  He weighs the air that sits heavy between them.  "You recognize that you are near the end.  Perhaps not in the next decade, but soon.  Sooner than anyone can truly comprehend, looking at their own life."

"I have upset you," Ezio says.  "I did not mean to."

Leonardo waves him off.  “Let me think, Ezio, and let me speak.  As dear as you are to me, you are not the only factor in my life.”

Ezio relents, embarrassed.

"Now." Leonardo clears his throat, clasping his hands together.  "I suppose there are no two ways about it, hm?  The time has come, as it always would.  This is right.  Natural."  He coughs, face turned into his arm—away from Ezio.  "I cannot hold this against you."

"I could never ask so much of you," Ezio says, impatient to push forward and embrace Leonardo, but well enough aware of the damage it would do.  "You are allowed to be upset.  Encouraged, even."  He laughs, a low chuckle.  "Truth be told, you would wound my vanity if you were not."

Coughing again into the crook of his arm, Leonardo stills for a moment, before slowly turning to face Ezio.  “You are impossible,” he says, voice dry and eyes bright.  A beat of silence, and—“Your  _vanity_ ,” Leonardo laughs, tears in his eyes.  “Oh, Ezio.  You are sly.”

Ezio grins.  “As ever.”

Leonardo stops for a moment to catch his breath, head hung.  Then, with a grace that has always— _always_ —stunned Ezio, he walks forward, halting just before Ezio.  Ezio’s heart stutters and stops when he sees the look in Leonardo’s eye: playful, mischievous,  _dangerous_.  “If you are truly leaving, as you say,” Leonardo says lowly, “and if you truly owe me as great a debt as you have said…”

Ezio’s mouth is dry.  “Hm?”

Leonardo glances up at him, hands pressed flat against Ezio’s chest.  “I have a favor to ask,  _caro mio_.”

"Anything," Ezio breathes, eyes caught at the corners of Leonardo’s mouth, on the tongue that parts his lips.

"Ezio."  Leonardo is close, now.  There is nothing subtle in the clasp of his hands at Ezio’s nape, at the callous drag of his fingers against Ezio’s scalp, of the press of his lips against Ezio’s ear.  "We should get married."

“ _Yes_ ,” Ezio hisses, hands grasping at Leonardo’s waist.

There is a low chuckle at his ear.  “Do you accept, Ezio Auditore?”

Ezio laughs, breathless.  He threads his fingers through Leonardo’s hair and pulls, gently, so he can see Leonardo’s expression.  He grins as Leonardo pouts, and moves to cradle Leonardo’s face in his hands.  “Leonardo da Vinci,” he whispers, reverent.  “ _I do_.”


End file.
